Second Chances
by Preacher
Summary: Dreams are curious things. They can be vivid, haunting, terrifying, troubling, heart-breaking. And just possibly, they can be true. This is a story of two days, two trolls, and two lifetimes lived between dreams.


You wake up screaming, gasping for air as you pull your head free from the sopor slime. After flailing spastically for a minute, your hand grips the hole at the top of the recuperacoon, and you haul yourself into a half-sitting, half-slumping position. Your chest heaves and you try to keep yourself from throwing up.

You had the nightmare again.

A minute too late to save you from the horrors of your subconscious, the alarm clock goes off, and you reward it for its tardiness by hurling it across the room. This fails to shut it up, so with a groan, you finish climbing out of the 'coon, and stumble over to mash the off button.

By this point, your head is pounding. You make your way to the bathroom, fumble the shower on, and sit beneath the icy flow, trying to shock yourself awake.

The nightmare is still fresh in your head. Lately, it's the same every time: the smell of burning flesh and hot iron. A faceless host hurling mockery at you. And somewhere amid the noise and heat and fury…someone you know. You never see her clearly, only in glimpses. A pair of crying eyes, with the barest hint of green at the edges, set in a sad, beautiful face. Wild hair. Short horns ending in a broad, rounded tip.

The nightmare always leaves you angry, and sad, and exhausted. You turn your wrists up into the cold spray, trying to dull the throbbing pain that the nightmare leaves behind. You wonder if this is what it feels like to be a saint, stigmata and all. Some divinity. Shit fucking hurts.

Finally, when your arms are numb from the cold, you turn the shower to warm and rinse the rest of the sopor slime from your body. You pull on a bathrobe, head to the livingblock, and grab your husktop.

You hate your dreams so fucking much. But you have to admit, they're half-decent source material.

Of course, you only get twenty minutes of solid writing time before your webmaster starts trying to pester you through every communication channel you have open. He's a great guy, honestly, but he cannot get the fucking message that you just want to be left alone to write. He immediately launches into questions about the website, digital distribution, whether you've heard back from your publisher-

No, fuck it. You can't deal with this bullshit right now. You slam the lid of the husktop shut, and decide you're going out.

It's not like there's anything to do in your shithole apartment anyway. For a poet, you've done okay for yourself, and at the very least, it's a safe place to sleep and write. But it's certainly nothing to look at. Aside from some clothes, the husktop, the contents of the thermal hull, and a few sundries, nothing here belongs to you.

You don't pay attention to what you're putting on—it's not like you care. You know the evening air will be warm but tug a knit cap over your still wet hair to avoid having to do anything with it. After a glance in the mirror, you judge yourself sufficiently presentable to face society, and hit the stairs.

A plan forms as your feet move. Coffee first. Then maybe you'll browse a bit in one of the bookstores in the city center, grab something to eat, and head back to your place once you can stand the thought of sitting again. Tonight, you're craving aloneness.

The universe has other ideas.

Twenty minutes later, you're making your way down the main pedestrian mall. The caffeine has done wonders for your wakefulness, and you're finally feeling like this day might be salvageable.

The sun is just about to set, and the mall is bustling with people—humans who have gotten off work and are enjoying themselves, and trolls who are just starting the day. You idly think about getting something to eat, letting your eyes wander across the storefronts, over the people sitting and enjoying the fine weather.

You almost don't see her. You catch just a glimpse—a profile, the curve of a horn, a tangle of dark hair. You nearly run into a lamppost as you whip your head around to look again.

She's sitting at a table in an outdoor cafe, with a cup of tea and a pastry in front of her. She's reading a paperback, holding it in one hand with the spine bent back all the way, sipping from her teacup with the other. She's lost in the pages, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

It's the girl from your dream. Same horns, same hair, same big eyes. She's petite and very pretty.

It's also completely impossible for her to exist. Completely fucking impossible. This is not how reality works. It's got to be some kind of bizarre coincidence—there's a limited number of horn phenotypes, surely. Probably there are dozens of petite trollgirls with heart-shaped faces and spade-shaped horns. And there's no way she'd be a greenblood.

Right?

Fuck.

You don't remember telling your legs to move, carrying you towards her. You regain control over them just in time to stop right outside the chain that separates the cafe from the street.

She looks up. The smile is still on her lips, although her eyebrows quirk in confusion. She sets down her teacup.

"Hello," she says. Her voice is bright. Your pulse is racing.

Fuck. Fuck! What can you say? Up close, you're more sure than ever—she looks like she could play the part of the girl from your nightmare perfectly. But your throat is tight. Your face is hot with shame.

"Sorry," you mumble. "I…thought you were someone I knew."

"Oh," she says, a little disappointed. Now she's looking at you strangely, with an expression that might be annoyance.

Fuck this. How did you even wind up making this kind of mistake? You're not getting enough sleep, you're spending too much time in your own head. The last thing you needed today was more time to yourself.

You turn to go.

"Um, wait!" she says.

You pause and turn halfway back.

"This might sound a little strange," she says, "but…can I see your horns?"

She flushes the moment after she says it, like she'd just asked you to do something lewd, and the bottom drops out of your stomach. When she blushes her cheeks go a deep, wild green. She's a greenblood. Holy fucking shit.

You reach up with a slightly shaking hand and pull the cap off your head. Your hair sticks to it a little.

She gasps. Her eyes go very wide. And with the barest whisper, you hear her breathe two words: "no way."

You're pretty sure your blood pusher is going to explode or something. You've never believed in destiny or fate or any of that shit but holy shithive bulgeblasters, you're ready to sign up to any and all newsletters on the subject, as soon as fucking possible.

She's the first one to regain her senses, and you hear her ask, in the same breathless tone, "would you like to join me for some tea?"

And apparently, because you're more addled in the thinkpan than Troll Jack Nicholson at the end of the film commonly known as One Flew Over the Cluckbeast's Nest, you point at your coffee like a complete fucking moron.

Trying to recover some of your dignity, you hop the chain and take the seat across from her. The two of you sit in awkward silence for a little while, until the waitress comes over and the girl asks for a second teacup.

More silence. You don't mind it too much. She's staring at you, drinking you in with her wide eyes. You're doing the same to her, and you feel a little embarrassed about it but not so guilty that you want to stop.

Finally, you get your cup. She tries to pour the tea for you, but her hands are shaking so badly she almost spills it. You gently take the teapot and do it yourself.

"Sorry," she says after another pause. She runs her fingers through her hair nervously, then draws them down across her cheeks and cups them in front of her mouth. "It's just…I'm kind of having trouble believing that you're real."

You hold up a hand, palm facing her, fingers spread. After a second, she understands. She raises her own hand, and touches it to yours, fingers first, then palm-to-palm. Her skin is smooth and warm.

"Okay," she says, nodding. "Okay. I…I guess this is actually happening."

"It's pretty fucking weird for me too," you say, and she giggles nervously.

"Like it's something out of a dream," she says with a meaningful look.

"Exactly," you say, breathing a sigh of relief. "Do you dream too?"

She nods. "There's a boy in my dreams. He looks just like you. In the dream I had last night…the boy was dying." She gestures, clutching each of her wrists in turn. "There are these hot iron shackles, and they burn him. He screams, and shouts, and curses…"

She draws a shaky breath. "It was so awful. And I want to help him. I want to help him so much. But I can't. I can't even move. I scream for someone to help…"

She's crying now, big green tears that run down her face, falling onto her shirt.

"And then I wake up."

You hand her your cap and she wipes her eyes with it. She manages to ask, "You said that you…recognize me?"

"Yeah. You're the girl who watches me burn."

It comes out more like an accusation than you intended. After a second, she asks "what's it like?"

"Fucking awful," you say. "The worst pain you can imagine. Usually when I wake up I'm so fucking sick and sore I have trouble getting out of my 'coon."

The girl sniffles a little and you feel like a bit of an asshole.

"Hey," you say. "I guess I never introduced myself. I'm Siglas."

She smiles a little. "Disele."

"Disele," you repeat. It feels well-worn and familiar as you say it.

"I have other dreams," you say, a little too quickly, like you're trying to confess something difficult. She quirks her head a little to the side. "With you. Or, well, I guess you're in them."

She leans forward a little and you hurry on, stumbling over your words. "Sometimes, I'm running from something. I don't know what. And I'll see this girl leading the way. I follow her until the dream ends. Or there'll be a campfire, and I'll see these green eyes in the dark. Or there's…I guess it's a boat? Fuck, I'm making a mess of this."

"No, no!" she says. "Keep going!"

"Well, um…it's…shit…some of the dreams are kind of personal. Not the kind of thing I'd talk about—" you wave your hand, indicating the cafe, the street, the city.

"Oh," she says, then after a second more, she blushes a green so deep she looks seasick.

"Fuck! No, not like that!" you say quickly. "It's…I'm a writer," you say. "And, well, I guess I'm just private about this kind of stuff."

She nods quickly, and seems satisfied by your answer. Or at least, you get the impression that she doesn't think you're some kind of shithive crazy dream pervert.

"I dream about people. Places. Half-formed events." You rub at your eyes. "Sometimes you're there, sometimes not. The dreams aren't all bad, but there's always this…tension."

The words aren't coming out right, but Disele seems to understand. You're interrupted by the waitress, and Disele asks for the check.

"Do you have anywhere you need to be?" Disele asks as she hands you back your hat. You shake your head. Your weak-ass plans can wait, this shit is way more important.

"I can spend another couple hours with you," she says hopefully, almost making it into a question. Then, she asks brightly, "Have you had breakfast? I know a place nearby, if you like bagels."

"Yeah, absolutely," you say. You don't really have an opinion on bagels, but right now you'd eat a dozen of them if it meant more time to talk to Disele.

She pays for the tea and the two of you leave together, hovering at an awkward distance because neither one of you knows how close to stand. At once, Disele is deeply familiar to you, and an almost complete stranger.

The bagel shop is another small, local place. She's opening the door when your phone rings.

"Fuck," you say by way of apology. "I have to take this."

"I'll meet you out here." Disele smiles and disappears inside.

You dig out your phone, preparing to chew out your webmaster-and cooling off a little when you see it isn't him.

You thumb the answer icon. "What."

"Good evening to you too," comes the voice on the other end. She speaks crisply and clearly.

"Look, I'm right in the middle of something, so don't take all fucking day."

"I was calling to confirm that you will be attending our usual weekly nourishment congregation."

"In plain English, please," you growl.

"Dinner tomorrow night as usual."

"Of course I'll be there," you say, your tone softening. "I wouldn't miss it."

"You should consider contacting our technologically minded cohort," she says with the barest bit of reproach. "He seemed under the impression that he had done something to upset you."

"No," you say, "just…bad start to the day."

You've told her about the nightmares, and she's listened with silent understanding. She knows better than to press you on the subject.

"See you tomorrow."

Disele emerges from the shop with a paper bag in one hand. "I didn't know what you liked, so I got a couple of different ones," she says.

"Anything sounds good. I'm fucking famished."

"There's a park nearby we can go to. It's a little more…"

"Private?" you say.

"Quiet," she says at the same time.

She leads the way, threading through the crowds with grace and confidence. Finally, the paving stones give way to gently sloping grass. You settle on a bench in the shade of a great tree, and Disele opens the bag and passes it to you. You pull out a bagel at random and sniff at it. Chive.

"I was thinking while I was in line," she says. "This dream stuff will probably take a while to sort out…so I think it might help if we tried to get to know each other a little better."

You nod. This sounds good to you. "So, uh…tell me about yourself," you say, taking a bite. It's a pretty dumb segue and it puts her on the spot, but you're curious, and you don't know how much more silence you can handle.

"Well, I'm a student," she says. You nearly choke on your bagel.

"How old are you?" you ask, after you've forced the lump in your throat down.

"Eleven sweeps," she says, then gives you a wry smile. "I'm in graduate school. How old did you think?"

You shrug and take another bite of bagel to dodge the question. You're really screwing up the entire "don't come across as a huge pervert" thing.

"I'm getting my masters in comparative literature," she says.

"What, like book reviews?"

She arches her eyebrows critically. "Meta-analysis of common tropes and thematic language concerning religious narratives as a vehicle for communicating absolute truth." She rattles this off like it's the brand of shampoo she buys.

"Sounds like a fucking riot," you grumble. "What do you do in your free time?"

"Oh, I read a lot. Watch movies, I guess. When I can get out of the city I like to hike and camp." She shuffles her feet. "I guess I'm a pretty private person? I never really went in for the whole partying thing."

You nod.

"What about you?" she asks, cocking her head a little. The fading light catches her hair as it slips past her shoulders, and she raises a hand to tuck it behind one ear. You find something about the motion captivating.

"I…write poetry." Dumb. "I have for a couple of years now." Still dumb.

"Are you published?" she asks.

"Yeah. Three collections so far."

Her eyes go wide. "Wow! I wish I could get published—I've just done some little stuff. Blogging, a few journal submissions…nothing real. Nothing that really moves people."

"Well, it's not really like I've got a following or anything." False modesty, perhaps, but you'll be damned if you drop the "I'm kind of a big fucking deal" card with this girl, who's somehow the key to everything in your whole goddamn artistic…fuck. Whatever it is. Universe. Oeuvre. A word that means oeuvre without the connotations of pretentious bullshit.

"And what about your free time?"

"I watch a lot of film." Say it. Just fucking say it. "I like romantic comedies."

Her eyes narrow and she smiles. "Shut up."

"Seriously."

"What's your all time favorite movie?"

Hoo boy. If you'd been asked that question on a good day, with advance warning, you'd still have a lot of trouble answering it. In this circumstance, you don't think you can possibly do it justice.

"I'm not sure…"

"Top five," she presses.

"Fuck," you say, rolling your eyes. "Okay, look…"

Before you know it you're off, describing all kinds of stuff without really caring if Disele follows you—what kind of plot arcs you appreciate, the cliches that drive you nuts, the best films and directors and actors and casting decisions…

And the best thing is, she does follow you. You cannot fucking believe it. Not only is she speaking the same language as you, she's asking all the right questions, and she's hanging on your every fucking word and it's completely thinkpan-shattering. If this were a first date you'd be absolutely cranial plating over calcaneals, but the fact that she's the girl from your dreams makes it completely surreal, and somehow, that much better.

The irony of discussing romantic comedies in a situation like this does not escape you.

She listens more than she talks, and inside, you're kicking yourself for monopolizing the conversation. But damn, this girl is a great listener. When Disele does talk, she gestures with almost every word, drawing you in and making sure that you're playing complete attention. And when she disagrees with you, she makes a sort of game out of it. She makes you think, makes you justify your opinions. She challenges you to stand your ground.

Finally, you pause in your discussion—after covering about fifty sweeps of cinematic history and criticism. Night has fallen, and Disele is a silhouette with a pair of vivid yellow-green eyes in the ragged moonlight. You feel slightly out of breath, and she's sitting cross-legged on the bench, facing you, a huge grin on her face.

"I like you," she says. She perks up and digs around in her handbag, pulling out a phone. She makes a face. "I have to go teach my class soon."

You stand and stretch. "I'll walk with you."

Disele nods, grabs the bag of unfinished bagels, and bounds to her feet. A silence comes between you again as you walk, but this time it's more casual, more familiar. You feel like you know her, at least a little bit. And a little bit is enough for now.

It turns out the path she takes goes right past your apartment. Another small coincidence amid a day of giant ones.

"This is where I hop off," you say, jerking a thumb at the door of your building. "When do you want to meet again?"

She lights up at this, as if she hadn't expected you to be the one to say it. "Tomorrow, at the cafe? I don't have class tomorrow." You nod.

"This has been…" You cast around for the right word. "Strange. Really good, but really, really fucking strange."

Disele nods and chuckles. "It's like the minute we walk away, it's…going to never have happened."

You pull off your beanie. "Here," you say. "To prove I'm real."

She smiles and accepts the cap, and immediately tugs it on over her head. It fits lopsidedly on her overlarge horns, but she makes it cute instead of comical.

"I want to give you something, too," she says. She reaches up to the back of her neck, and unhooks a slim silver chain. Hanging from it is a small, curving zodiacal symbol, with a deep green stone set in the head. "It means a lot to me, so…that means that I'll be back."

You put out your hand, and she drops the charm. The chain spools into your palm, and you close it reverently.

"Tomorrow," you say softly.

"Tomorrow," she repeats with certainty.

You watch as Disele walks away, bag swinging on her shoulder. She keeps casting glances back at you, and finally, when she reaches the corner, she turns and waves. You wave back, then go inside.

After you close the door to your apartment, you fall back onto your couch, and put an arm over your eyes.

What. The fuck. Just happened.

Okay—think it through, Siglas. Start at the beginning. You've been having the nightmares, the dreams, for years now. Since you reached adolescence. And they only became clearer and more frequent as time has gone on. There have been new threads added to the fabric, the older you get. More terrible threads. Darker things, horrific visions of…

You've never been sure what of, exactly. Hell on earth, near as you figure it.

The girl in your dreams didn't start showing up until more recently, maybe a couple of years ago. And her presence is one of the few happy things in your dreams. Even when she's weeping, and your heart is breaking, things are better for her being there.

But meeting her? Yeah right. That's an adolescent fantasy you outgrew years ago.

Fuck, you have to write. Get some of this impossible bullshit on paper while it's fresh.

You only stop to inhale the remaining bagels, and to tell your webmaster that no, you're not pissed at him, you just want to be left the fuck alone. By the time you stop writing, dawn has broken and you're emotionally wrung out. Normally, you avoid sleep like the plague, going on insomniac benders that last days or even weeks. You've produced some of your best material when you were so tired you started hallucinating. Some of your most popular poems you don't even remember writing. The notion of you getting a good night's sleep is normally something you'd laugh at.

But it has been as far from a normal fucking day as possible.

You check the time. You can squeeze in a decent sleep cycle before meeting up with Disele in the morning. You hit the ablution chamber and set your alarm. Then, before climbing into the 'coon for the night, you grab Disele's necklace off the coffee table.

You wrap it around your thumb, the small charm resting in the palm of your hand. Against the green of the sopor slime, it sparkles faintly, catching the light that creeps through the blinds.

You tuck your fist under your chin, and drift off.


End file.
